


Relief

by remedialpotions



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Shell Cottage (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:13:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29769813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remedialpotions/pseuds/remedialpotions
Summary: Everything hurts, still, but it’s lessened somehow with the warmth of his voice, the way his features soften at the sight of her and the knowledge that whatever she’s going through, he’s there with her.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 10
Kudos: 63





	Relief

**Author's Note:**

> Happy 41st birthday to my favorite fictional person 🧡

The beam of light pierces the room, straight into Hermione’s eyes and through to what feels like the back of her brain. With a wince, she rolls and tries to bury her face in the pillow, seeking the respite of cool linens and darkness, but it’s no use. The headache that had eased in her sleep, though never fully subsided, is back with a vengeance.

England has no business being this sunny this time of year. It’s March; isn’t it meant to be cold and rainy and grey for days on end? Instead, to her great distaste, spring has arrived early.

She tries to sit up, but her limbs are like lead, and for a moment, as the pulsing behind her eyes intensifies, she takes a deep breath and wonders if she should even bother. She’s just in for yet another miserable day, one of struggling to raise her arms enough to wash her hair in the shower, of forcing down dry biscuits to quell the roiling in her stomach, of averting her eyes to avoid the pity in everyone’s gaze. It’s been six straight days of this, and all she wants is to feel better, to _be_ better, and yet she knows that might not happen. She thinks of the Longbottoms in the Janus Thickey Ward, unable to speak or recognize their own child. She knows she’s not that poorly off, not even close. She’s still got her voice, hoarse though it may be, and her mind, and she’s grateful - but what good is her mind if she’s in too much pain to think?

What finally compels her from the bed is basic, simple thirst. She pulls on a dressing gown, some flimsy, silky thing that Fleur has loaned to her, and creeps silently out the door. Stairs are daunting lately: if she moves slowly, her ravaged muscles ache and burn, but if she hurries, the drop between each step sends a jolt right up her spine into her brain. Today, with her head pounding so intensely that it makes her dizzy, she has no choice but to guide herself slowly down the steps, gripping the guardrail the whole way down, and hope her legs don’t give way.

But she makes it eventually, and when she reaches the kitchen, she finds that she isn’t the only one awake. A tea kettle sits in the center of the worktop, beside a jar of sugar with a spoon plunged into the crystals. There’s only one person in the house who takes his tea with sugar, and the very thought imbues Hermione with enough energy to fix her own cup and walk down to the sitting room.

Ron’s nestled into one of the larger armchairs in the room, feet tangled in the rumpled mess of his sleeping bag on the floor in front of him, with a book open in one hand and his mug of tea in the other. With the exception of Harry and Dean’s muffled snores and the waves crashing outside, all is quiet and peaceful. Right there, in that room, is exactly what she needs.

“You’re up early,” she says, just loudly enough for her voice to carry across the room.

Ron turns at the sound and the corners of his lips curve into a smile. “A little less surprise would be nice.”

Hermione takes a few steps towards him. Everything hurts, still, but it’s lessened somehow with the warmth of his voice, the way his features soften at the sight of her and the knowledge that whatever she’s going through, he’s there with her.

“And you’re reading.”

Ron quirks an eyebrow. “Again, a little less surprise-” His words break off, and he tilts his head. “D’you feel all right?”

Hermione sidesteps Harry’s rucksack and shrugs. “About the same.”

With a sympathetic wince, Ron pats the narrow stretch of cushion beside him. “Come and sit.”

Getting herself anywhere is a challenge, even within the walls of the cottage; only by the power of her desire to pay respects to Dobby and the knowledge that Ron would be there to support her did she make it down the garden walk last week. But he draws her to him now, like a magnet, and soon she’s nestling herself into the space between the arm of the chair and his leg. They fit, but very tightly, and it takes everything Hermione has not to swing her legs into his lap.

Instead, she asks, “what are you reading?”

Ron shows her the cover: _A Life of Loyalty: The Unique Bond Between Wizards and Their House Elves._ “I didn’t know you’d brought this,” he remarks. “Do you secretly read about house elves when the rest of us are sleeping?”

“Maybe,” replies Hermione, coy, which makes Ron chuckle. “Well, I did think it might be useful, Kreacher was involved with the locket, and that poor elf that belonged to Hepzibah Smith, she was the only witness-”

“I know, I know,” interrupts Ron, still smiling fondly at her. 

“So why have you started reading it, anyway? Is it just the least boring of all my books?”

“Well, yeah, but no, I…” He takes a long sip of his tea, like he’s stalling for time. “I just wanted to see if it had anything, on, erm…” He swallows another mouthful. “Y’know… funerals.”

Hermione freezes with her teacup halfway to her mouth. “Oh.” 

“Just, my family’s never had house elves, and Harry and Dean grew up with Muggles so they wouldn’t really know either. But I just keep thinking about Dobby, and if we did something wrong when we buried him, like…” He looks down at the cover of the book, lower lip sneaking between his teeth. “What if they have, y’know, customs or traditions or things that you’re supposed to do, that we didn’t do - maybe it’s stupid-”

“No, it’s not-”

“But I had to know.”

“Well,” Hermione begins, careful to keep her voice low to avoid waking the others in the room, “I happen to have done extensive research on house elves-”

“Oh, have you?” Ron feigns surprise. “You’ve really kept that quiet-”

“Do you want to hear this or not?”

“Sorry, sorry.” He reaches over and pats her knee. “Go ahead.”

“House elves live quite a long time, they can outlive the families they’re serving which is why they’re often written into wills, but when they don’t…” She pauses, her train of thought off-track, though not due to the ache behind her eyes; Ron is drawing tiny circles on her knee with his fingertips, and this simple touch fills all the space in her brain. “Erm, when they don’t, it’s up to the family they’ve served to decide what’s best. Dobby was free, but he was deeply loyal to Harry, so I expect that he would have wanted…” She stops and sips her tea to fight the lump building in her throat. “Whatever Harry chose for him.”

“Right.” Ron lifts his hand from her knee and rubs the back of his neck, further mussing his sleep-tousled hair. “Good. ‘Cause I just… I don’t want to mess up again.”

Hermione knows he’s thinking back on the past several months, and that he hasn’t stopped beating himself up for all that’s gone wrong. Even with things that aren’t his fault, he manages to find a way to blame himself. He can’t seem to see how much she needs him… so she decides to show him.

In the cramped space of the armchair, it takes just the slightest shift for her to lean against him and let her weary head drop against his shoulder. 

“You haven’t messed up,” she says, craning her neck up to look at him. Normally this would hurt - her neck has been stiff and tense, just like every other bit of her - but when their eyes meet, she decides it isn’t so bad.

His arm eases slowly around her shoulder, and his elbow bends so that his hand rests against her hair.

“This all right?” he asks, words coming out in a breath. “I know your head’s been bothering you.”

“Yeah, it’s - it’s nice, actually.”

His fingertips move through her curls, just barely grazing her scalp, and when they brush over her temple, she can’t help but gasp in shock. She’s so accustomed to pain that she’s forgotten what pleasure is like.

“Sorry! Did that hurt? I’m so-“ 

Ron pulls his arm away, but Hermione grabs his hand and tugs it back into place. 

“No, it felt good,” she assures him, nestling further into his side. “It’s helping, it’s - it’s the only thing that’s helped in days.”

“Yeah?”

“Please don’t stop.”

As he resumes his slow, soft movements, she closes her eyes, but not before catching a glimpse of the contentment on his face. 

She’s not better yet… but she knows now that she will be.


End file.
